


Gravely Distracted

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lustful gazing can be dangerous, Mild Hurt/Comfort, bedannibalprompts, when you are using a sharp knife at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 16:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia barely notices the blood, feeling utterly embarrassed. She lets Hannibal wrap her hand in a towel and lead her out of the kitchen and into the nearest room.





	Gravely Distracted

A tiny twitch appears between his eyebrows each time the knife meets the chopping board; it is barely visible, but it does not escape Bedelia’s attention. He pretends not to watch her, casting discreet glances while he busies himself with the duck breasts.

“Is something the matter?” Bedelia asks, her hand pauses, the knife hovering over the vegetables she has been cutting for dinner.

The dinner that they are preparing together; Hannibal overseeing the main dish and Bedelia, the starter of halloumi bruschetta with carrot and saffron relish.

“No,” Hannibal turns away, but she can still sense the tension in his face. It makes her own nerves taut, tight strings ready to snap at the tiniest wrong note.

“Am I doing it wrong?” she presses on, her tone firmer, gaze fixed fiercely on the back of his head.

“Of course, not,” he responds at once with a swift turn, coming face to face with her displeased manner.

A bit too swift of a turn, in Bedelia’s opinion. She puts the knife down and stares at him defiantly.

“I am capable of dicing a few carrots, Hannibal,” her fingers press against the board to prove her set stance.

Hannibal opens his mouth to respond, but she does not give him a chance.

“I did prepare my own meals, as hard as it might be to believe,” the words fall rapidly from her lips. It is an overreaction, she knows it well, but her usual determination takes iron control. And she has never liked to be patronised.

He does not interrupt her, standing still by the counter, quiet patience in his eyes as he listens to her keenly.

“Unless you don’t want me to be here,” she ends her argumentation and her voice loses its bite as she expresses her most hidden thoughts. The things that mean the most to us are the most difficult to articulate and it is still hard for her to divulge her feelings at times. She is unwilling to admit how much she enjoys sharing this time and space with him.

Hannibal’s mouth curls up ever so slightly and he tilts his head, his gaze even tenderer now. He does not take his eyes off her; it feels like a balmy caress on her skin, soothing her.

“Bedelia,” he speaks softly, and she feels the agitation being pushed aside and melting on its own accord under his stare. “You know it is not true.”

She does. It was his idea in the first place.

He abandons his spot and moves to stand next to her. His arm sneaks around her waist and she yields to his touch, the tension in her body vanishing, her argument appearing distant and irrelevant.

“I was merely going to say that it might be less tiring for you to cut them julienne,” he explains carefully, “Only a suggestion. I will let you go back to work,” he concludes, and the hand falls away. How disappointing.

Bedelia considers his recommendation, her mind no longer straining to resist the offer. It seems he knows how to manage her stubbornness better that she does.

“Show me,” she passes the knife to him.

His face lights up with a smile as Hannibal steps forward again, taking the knife and a stick of carrot. Bedelia watches as he swiftly disposes of the ends, then proceeds to chop the carrot into slices and stack the pieces. His nimble fingers move in tandem with the knife, holding the slices in place and sliding back a little with each cut of the blade, like a perfectly choreographed routine. Thin strips begin to appear on the board. Bedelia takes delight in this spectacle, one performed for her alone. It has always been a pleasure to observe him in the kitchen, now even more so, knowing that she is no longer a distant spectator, but shares the stage with him.

She expects him to finish the task, being much quicker than her, but, to her surprise, he stops halfway and gives her back the handle. She takes it with unexpected eagerness, ready to test her new knowledge. His eyes follow her as she finishes slicing the carrot and reaches for the next one, the strips coming to view under her cut as even as his.

“See, isn’t that simpler?” he comments, gentle affection pouring from his voice, still mindful of her pride.

“Yes, it is,” she admits without further protest, enjoying the task.

Hannibal continues to watch her and, as much she tries to disregard his stare, its intensity is hard to ignore.

“It is difficult to concentrate with you staring, Hannibal,” she stops and turns to meet his gaze, “I think I can manage,” she adds with a faint smile.

“Of course, you can,” he states earnestly, smiling back, then returns to his previous spot and his own preparations.

Her knife moves smoothly over the vegetable chunks, rhythmical sound of the blade against wood quietly echoing in the vast space of their kitchen, but her gaze wonders stubbornly. As much as she tries to keep her eyes down on the board, they slide off and away, seeking the opposite counter.

Having placed the duck breasts in the oven, Hannibal is currently making fennel purée, putting thinly sliced bulbs and leaves into a pan. Always graceful, no gesture is without a purpose, as he glides fluidly between the hob and the counter. The show continues, now in panoramic view, and it is more than pleasing to Bedelia.

She smiles to herself, no longer trying to avert her eyes. She adores watching him move, especially when he cooks. All slim stature and broad muscles, tempting her through the fabric of his clothes. Her gaze slowly follows the lines of his back, all too familiar paths now concealed under the fine cut of his shirt. The eyes pause on his shapely behind, framed by the opening in his apron which only accentuates its shape. Sometimes she wonders if he is wearing it this way on purpose. Bedelia licks her lips absentmindedly. These are pleasures she tried to deny herself for many years, nothing more than stolen glances kept well hidden, and she intends to savour it fully at present.

Hannibal reaches out for the top shelf, the cotton of his shirt stretching along the tensed muscles of his shoulders. Bedelia’s gaze lingers as she starts to devise after-dinner plans in the back of her mind.

Sudden sharp pain interrupts her musings. She gasps and looks down to see the knife no longer slicing through the vegetables but cutting her own flesh instead, the razor-like blade grazing her palm between the thumb and forefinger.

“What is the matter?” Hannibal materialises by her side in an instant as if by means of a magic trick.

“My hand slipped. It is nothing.” She attempts to downplay the incident, but the droplets of blood on her skin steadily turning to a stream say otherwise.

“It is not nothing, you are hurt,” there is urgency in his tone and he rushes to get a clean cloth.

Bedelia barely notices the blood, feeling utterly _embarrassed_. She lets Hannibal wrap her hand in a towel and lead her out of the kitchen and into the nearest room.

“I will be back in a moment,” he states while having her sit in an armchair.

Bedelia holds her hand without much regard, red dots appearing bit by bit in-between the white fibres of the cloth. Her mind replays the last minutes in disbelief at her own folly. She hopes Hannibal did not notice her staring; he could not have, she reassures herself, his back was turned.

“Bedelia, are you all right?”

Hannibal returns with a basin of water and a medical kit but stops mid-step and looks at her with fresh worry.

“Yes, why?” she responds at once, not wanting to invite his further scrutiny.

“You have gone pale,” he clarifies, placing down his supplies and sitting next to her immediately, his warm hand gently cupping her cheek.

“I am fine,” she reassures him, briefly closing her eyes, enjoying the touch. All his attentiveness makes her feel more foolish which probably makes her skin paler in turn. She breaths in deeply, exhaling slowly, trying to disperse the bothersome notions and bring her circulation back to normal.

Her efforts are successful; to her relief, Hannibal’s attention now focuses on her injury. He removes the bloodied towel and delicately guides her hand to the bowl set on the side table. A low hiss escapes her lips when the water meets the cut, but she keeps the hand still, allowing the water and Hannibal’s deft fingers to clean it. Soon the clear liquid turns murky cerise and he takes her hand out, patting it dry with a clean towel, then examining the cut with caution, fingers lifting and twisting her palm with utmost carefulness.

Inspection must have proven satisfactory as Hannibal’s expression softens, the dark alertness in his eyes subdued; he reaches for the medical kit and retrieves a bottle of antiseptic.

“I am sorry, this might sting,” he warns her, bringing the pad to her skin and Bedelia presses her lips, swallowing a whimper, no longer allowing herself to show any weakness.

As everything gradually returns to normal, she brings her control firmly back in place, wanting to put this event behind them as soon as possible. Hannibal wraps a bandage around her hand, slowly, with deliberate tenderness and she feels calmer under his steady care, her previous embarrassment withdrawing.

“All done,” he proclaims with a satisfied smile.

Basin and bag in hand, he leaves the room and Bedelia, who feels at ease now, the irking thoughts gone along with the evidence of her clumsiness, safely covered in gauze.

When he comes back again, there is a glass of water in his hand and she gratefully accepts it, not having realised how dry her lips were.

“Thank you,” she says, sipping eagerly on the cold drink.

 Hannibal sits down again and inspects her hand one last time.

“Next time, I will leave the kitchen. I do not want you to injure yourself more on the account of the _distraction_ ,” he remarks casually, his words followed by a sassy grin adorning his lips.

Bedelia nearly chokes on her water, but she manages to swallow the gulp and remain composed. If there was any paleness left on her face, it is gone now, replaced by a rapid blush. She puts the glass aside and meets his eyes, twinkling with amusement. Her skin keeps burning, but she remains silent; there are no retorts, she quietly accepts the revealed embarrassment. Still smiling, Hannibal brings her palm to his lips and presses a kiss below the bandage line.

“We should finish dinner,” he says after a moment, “Unless you prefer to rest. I can do it myself.”

She gives him a wary side glance, but there is no more smugness in his eyes; he does not press the subject. For now. She is certain he will enjoy reminding her about the incident.

“No, I can manage,” she stands up, ready to leave.

As they walk towards the kitchen, Bedelia makes a firm mental note to avoid sharp tools or gazing at Hannibal. She decides it will be easier to stay away from the utensils.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to kmo for suggesting this idea. I really wanted a hurt/comfort fic (I am utter trash for Hannibal caring for Bedelia) but without any serious hurt and this was just perfect to explore. Usually Bedelia is the one who is put together, so it was fun to turn the tables and see how Hannibal helps her, from her stubbornness to her unfortunate injury. I love how they complement each other that way.


End file.
